


Shattered steel

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit of angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Tarkin has nightmares. You cannot bear to see him suffer and offer your help as best you can.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by aleaiactaest93 who suggested I write about Tarkin or another imperial gentleman dealing with PTSD and reader reacting to it. She also offered to beta for me, for which I'll be eternally grateful. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I wasn't sure how to tag it properly so I'll just add that this was originally intended as a one-shot fluff fic without (at least not intentional) romantic or sexual undertones. That changed when the second chapter was added ;-) 
> 
> Tarkin's nightmares aren't described with any detail, but left to his, and your, imagination.

“If you ever speak to anyone about this –“

Tarkin does not need to continue. One steely gaze is enough to convey the threat of a thousand torments. And yet, you are sure – none of the horrors your imagination can conjure metes up to the ones that plague him at night. The nameless terror needed to force such sounds from this man must go beyond anything. Merely the thought that it may be with him always, a constant menace waiting to pounce, just outside his field of vision, fills you with compassion even now. It stings that he thinks he needs to use intimidation to ensure your silence. You will not betray his trust, but if only he allowed you to –

“We will never speak of this matter again.”

His words pull down a shutter between you as effectively as if he’d done it literally. His expression is blank now, schooled, as efficiently as ever sending the intended signals. The Grand Moff is not a man. He is some untouchable, unreachable deity on a pillar looking down on those who vie desperately for his attention. Woe those who attempt to climb, who try to find the slightest sign of softness in that armour, his impenetrable shell.

“Of course not, sir.”

You stand before him helplessly clenching your fists, pressing nails into palms so that the pain would be enough to keep you from seeing in your mind’s eye the state he was in that night. His withering glare is an effective deterrent and yet that other Tarkin cannot be unseen. The image of him, broken, remains superimposed upon his current form no matter how much you wish it to go away. His upper lip twitches with the embryo of a sneer as he lifts his chin and you turn on your heels, marching from the mess room as fast as anything less than a panicked run can accomplish.

* * *

As overseer of your own army of cleaning droids it sometimes falls upon you to deal with ‘debris’ of a more sensitive nature than the kind the mechanical workers efficiently dispose of. Whenever they encounter a person where none should be, or in a condition unsuitable for the location, you are called to investigate. Baring the infrequent medical emergencies, this is usually a matter of touring the mess rooms and gently shaking the shoulder of an inebriated crewer that has fallen asleep leaned over a table or on a couch.

Sometimes they need to be escorted to their quarters. It’s not unusual for them to spill their hearts’ content as they stumble beside you in half-stupor, be it the sorrows of spurned affection or insane plans of new advances on their next night off. Some are eager to reveal ‘the truth’ about the galaxy and everything within, down to the alleged secret meaning of the markings on Lord Vader’s chest plate. You shudder at the thought, having never been close enough to the giant of a man to examine any part of him with scrutiny. Luckily, he isn’t known to consort with the personnel.

You don’t mind taking care of the drifting souls. Typically, they’re harmless enough, and most of them are grateful for your assistance, even the embarrassed ones.

Members of high command are seldom your concern – perhaps they prefer to keep their incessive drinking to a closer circle – and so it is a surprise when you arrive at the destination for your latest call. The mouse droid that gave the signal whirrs away as soon as your presence is noted, leaving you with none other than Grand Moff Tarkin.

He is in a peculiar state. Sitting in a chair, gesturing with his hands as if he were talking angrily with somebody, but nobody is there. Suddenly he flinches, his face contorts into a mask of horror and he begins to moan, softly at first, then more desperately.

“Governor, sir,” you call softly. There’s no reaction. He continues to stare into nothing, flinching and writhing as if trying to get away from whatever it is he sees.

Had this been anybody else, you’d have alerted medbay immediately. With Tarkin, you don’t dare. Everybody knows that this simply isn’t done.

The extent of Tarkin’s trauma is not known among the crew, nor is it common knowledge whether all of it is caused by horrors inflicted by the enemy. Some suggest parts of it may the heritage of a harsh upbringing. Other speak of hunting expeditions gone awry. Only the bravest whisper of rues, of regrets, of the Grand Moff being in pain over the destruction he has caused others. That his ailment is just that of an aching conscience.

The Grand Moff wears his scars proudly, say the few who have witnessed them. That he doesn’t flaunt them daily is no reason to doubt their existence. Rather, this is what adds to his legendary reputation. Tarkin is as hard to himself as he is ruthless to his enemies. His greatness has been a constant in your life almost as far back as you can remember.

Seeing him double over with pain hurts. Tarkin is not one to cry out in despair, he does not stumble. If he has sorrows he hides them well. Watching him in tears is an excruciating experience. He is unaware of your presence and you are terrified of being found out. It is blasphemy to see him like this, and yet you are unable to take your eyes off of him, as if your gaze would offer some comfort. It is a feeble company, as impotent as your thoughts. Still, you cannot leave him alone. You suffer through it, with him, together. Cold sweat covers you when it is over. When he wipes his forehead and schools his feature into the usual sternness, straightens his back and faces life stoically you are left with an aching stomach and shaking limbs.

* * *

The next time it happens, months later, you cannot bear to simply watch. The circumstances are similar, the room the same, but now he’s on the sofa, curled up in the farthest corner. The scene playing in his head may be a different one, or you’ve just arrived at another part of it. Maybe the worst is already over.

Trembling, you approach him, slowly as to not startle. He is barely aware of your presence, the only acknowledgement a feeble whine when you sit down next to him.

“Shhh,” you say quietly, “nobody is going to hurt you.” The words are nonsense, but you hope your tone of voice is comforting. He doesn’t flinch when you put an arm around his back.

You stroke his hair, almost as if he were a child. Holding this powerful man like this feels absurd and wonderful. There is a patch near the top of his head where the hair is thinner. It makes him more human, an outward manifestation of the vulnerability that lies within. Even in this state, he dislikes being reminded of it. He catches your hand and pulls it to his chest, cradling it. The only sound he makes is his breathing. Quick and shallow at first, then gradually evening out into something akin to slumber. You are lulled into sleep as well.

You awaken abruptly, a boot kicking repetitiously against your leg. Your eyes fly open and you stare into an olive uniform.

“Rise.” Already by that single word you can tell that Tarkin is not pleased. You scramble to get up on shaky legs, straightening your uniform as well as you are able. His, naturally, bears no sign of being slept in.

“S-sir. I am –“

"Now, tell me who of your friends are into this scheme."

"Sir? I was going to say I’m glad to see you are feeling better _.”_

"Don't play stupid! Who else is involved in this apparent conspiracy to exploit my moment of vulnerability?"

"No one, sir, it's just me."

"Very well. What do you seek to gain from this? Which favours did you think you could pry from me by blackmail?"

"I was only trying to help!" The burning sensation in your eyes is getting stronger.

"Is that so? Pray tell, what do you think you can do that the best experts on Coruscant cannot?"

It all seems stupid now. There’s no way you can tell him the truth, he wouldn’t understand.  Is he even capable of compassion?

“Tell me!”

“Nothing, sir. It was wrong of me to try.” You turn your face away, hoping to mask the tears.

“Look at me.”

Slowly you raise your gaze to his face carved in stone. This is so humiliating, but you dare not lift a hand to wipe at your cheeks.

He continues to stare at you icily, lip twitching with disgust. He probably has never felt any emotion other than contempt in his entire life!

“What you may have witnessed here tonight did not happen,” he says, pronouncing the words very slowly and clearly. “I will not tolerate any attempt to use this knowledge.” There’s an edge to his voice that promises dire consequences.

“Of course not, sir. I –” Even now, you wouldn’t think of revealing his secret.

He cuts you off immediately.

“If you ever speak to anybody about this –”

* * *

The reprimand was so unjust, so wholly undeserved, and for a few days you shy away from seeing him even from afar. Every call from the droids makes you flinch – what if it’s him you’re going to find again? You felt so humiliated. The ungrateful bastard!

Still, you cannot let go of the thought that he is suffering. You may not be a specialist and the comfort you can offer may be temporary, but you saw what you saw. For a few more days you are able to keep compassion at bay, then conscience becomes too much. You must do something, for your own sake. Even if the Grand Moff is a cruel, old tyrant.

At night, you sleep fitfully, listening for sounds of distress. It is folly, there’s no way any sound would carry from his quarters through all the floors and sections separating you, and yet you wake up several times, sure you heard it again. The first two times you pad to the door and peer out into the corridor’s emptiness. Nothing. Of course, there’s nothing. What do you expect, that the Grand Moff would burst into tears on your doorstep, dragging himself all the way here for some comfort?

He has no need to be coddled, in this you believe him. But what if he wants it? What if the Grand Moff actually has desires, wishes, dreams? You don’t have much to offer, but he is worth sacrificing your pride. It isn’t the cure for his ailment, that would be too simple, but giving him even the slightest comfort would make you feel better. Are you an egoist then, who would force your feeble help on an unwilling subject?

You ponder this a lot, and decide against it. It is for his sake, too. Whatever his conscious self decides, he did seem calmed by your presence. He stopped wailing the moment he heard your voice and then, when you stroked his back, he pressed his face into your chest and clung to you.

* * *

This other version of him in your memory is all that keeps you from running away when he opens his door, a scowl on his face.

“Come in, if you must,” he says. “I can’t have you loitering outside my door as if there’s anything between us. Quickly, now.”

Even in his night robe and with bags under his eyes, his authority is unquestionable. Before you know it, you’re inside, peering into his bedroom with curiosity. His bed looks slept in, in a way that rhymes ill with his exhausted appearance. If he’s slept, it wasn’t peacefully.

The sound of a throat clearing makes you take a step to the side. He passes you without as much as a word. Coming her was such a mistake!

“I – I should go. I’m sorry, sir, for… interrupting.”

He whips around and says gruffly, “Might as well stay, now that you’re here. Don’t need the talk about you roaming at night.”

He disappears into the bedroom and you are left to stand uneasily in the hallway. After a while you carefully remove your boots and tunic and sit on the sofa. You are half asleep on the hard couch when you hear the first inkling of a moan. It is a muffled sound, as if he’s enough awake to restrain himself, but not to hinder the sound completely. A series of heart-rendering sobs follow, then another drawn-out moan. By now you’re fully awake, stumbling on stiff legs into the bedroom. He is on the bed still, in a tangle of sheets, moaning with open, yet unseeing eyes.

“Sir?”

He screams, clutching his left wrist and begins to wail quietly. You approach him with great care, gently humming as you reach out your hand to stroke his arm gently. He flinches at first, but then begins to relax. You sit on the bed and continue to touch him soothingly. Every attempt to stop makes him stir uneasily and eventually you lie down beside him. You lean your forehead against his upper arm and gently run your fingers over his cheek. He is quiet now, his breaths having slowed into an even rhythm. It really is time for you to leave.

Then he turns to his side, trapping your thighs efficiently in an iron grip, and casts a sleep-groggy glance at you before his eyelids close again. You ease yourself into a more comfortable position on side. His face is warm against your belly, hot puffs of air coming out with each breath. He looks fully at ease.

* * *

When morning comes, you quietly slip out of the bed, intent on spending the last quiet hour or so in your own quarters. Finding the door into the corridor locked, you curse your stupidity. What had you expected?

You return to the hard couch instead. It is uncomfortable and sleep keeps evading you until Tarkin’s thin form become visible in the doorway. He stares at you, then looks back over his shoulder. He turns his head again slowly, pointedly. He knows you slept in his bed, of course he does.

Without a word, he passes you and unlocks the door into the corridor. You slink out, confused. Did your presence eventually please him, annoy him, embarrass him? Will he continue to ignore you, or have you just signed your death sentence?

* * *

The summons comes in the afternoon. You have been to Tarkin’s office before, but only in his off-duty hours. His desk is an ancient piece of furniture that requires polishing by hand.

“I owe you an explanation,” the man behind it says and steeples his fingers. “I can no longer deny it. Awkward as it is to admit, your presence at certain times is convenient.” The smile that spreads over your face seems to make him uneasy. “Beneficial to the war effort,” he emphasizes. “Thus, you will relocate into the quarters in the same sector as mine.”

Astonished, you don’t know what to say. You’re certainly not against the idea, but it is rather overwhelming. “But, sir –“

He lifts a finger into the air. “Unless otherwise instructed, you will present yourself at 2300 standard time, whereafter you are expected to spend the night with me.” The left corner of his mouth tugs upward and he adds; “And not on the wretched couch.”

In spite of the multitude of questions in your head, all you can do is nod.

“No couch, sir.”

“Do we have an understanding? This is a clandestine arrangement, naturally, by penalty of death.” He adds it matter-of-factly – standard procedure it seems, and nothing out of the ordinary for him.

You swallow. “Of course, sir.”

“One more thing.”

“Sir?” What else could he have to add to this strange invitation?

“Thank you.”

“I’m always glad to serve, sir.”

He lifts an eyebrow at that, then smirks. “I suspected so. You smile in your sleep.”

* * *

Grand Moff Tarkin has a new shine to his eyes, a rosy freshness to his cheeks. Rumours say he has some new, young thing in his bed to wear him out before sleep. Only the two of you know the truth.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could you possibly share Tarkin’s bed and not want more? Utterly plotless smut and fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to teawithshakespeare for betaing! You boost my confidence <3

With a contented sigh, Tarkin bores his nose into the soft flesh of your belly. He nudges around a little, buffing like a small animal in its nest. You are careful not to touch him, and not to move beyond the necessity of breathing.

He caught you once, holding your breath. The memory makes you smile. He expressed his annoyance by holding his own, forcing you to anxiously count the seconds until he’d prove to still be among the living. He won, of course, hasn’t he always? “You are not to cause yourself discomfort,” he remarked stiffly at the time. “It hampers my rest.”

What an odd thing for him to say, almost tender. As if he cared about your level of comfort even if he spoke of his own. Now, you guard your fingers closely, lest they stray into his hair. You want to stroke his face, so peacefully at rest. How would those cheekbones feel against your fingertips, how the outline of that noble nose? His thin lips you know already, how they graze your abdomen with a softness few would think him capable of. Only in sleep of course, or drifting into it. Anything else is unthinkable.

You were mortified the first time he bored his nose into your soft midriff, flabby from a life in the comparative comfort of civilian service. You expected him to coil back in disgust, or at least utter a scorching remark about your lack of self-control. Soft, flabby, pudgy, when everything on him was lean and taut and hardened. Instead, he filled his hand with pliant softness, made you wiggle, and then watched the trembling flesh with something akin to fascination. You blushed and stuttered an excuse.

“My duties here don’t allow a lot of exercise, or, rather, I mean, I do get to run around a lot and I try to be healthy, but uhm it’s been a while since I visited the gym.”

He pursed his lips. “You would indeed be a poor candidate for a body guard, but I don’t see you vying for any position requiring elite physical shape. You are of adequate build to provide my ease of mind.”

You quit being embarrassed then, accepted that he wanted you in his bed regardless of imperfections, whether real or imagined, and that he seemed to take comfort in pressing his face against you. The tenderness that wells in your chest at feeling him close makes it hard to hold back but you know it is necessary. Should you allow yourself but one errant caress it would cause a deluge of unrequited emotion. You provide a service. He is your superior, nothing more.

* * *

 

You sleep in the nude; Tarkin wears a blue-striped pyjama. It is a garment of class, always crisp and with a clean, discreet fragrance. The stripes are a dark navy blue, like his eyes in the subdued light in his bedroom. He wears it with the same natural ease as his uniform. You have never seen him change into it; he is always ready for bed when you arrive.  There are seven buttons, all white but for the lowest one that has a yellowish hint. An old replacement, you think, of inferior quality, yet he hasn’t found it necessary to change it.

In the beginning you tried wearing night garments. Despite it being only a loose-fitting top and knee-long shorts, you immediately discovered how difficult it is to re-learn a habit once abandoned. It was hot, it wound uncomfortably around your waist, rode up when it shouldn’t. After a while you started slipping it off while he was asleep and putting it on again before rising. Until one morning when you found him observing you. He said nothing about your state of dishabille, only lifted an eyebrow. The following night, he studied you as you went to bed.

“If you wear this garment for my sake, it is not necessary.”

You looked at him, perplexed.

“Our arrangement is unorthodox enough as it is,” he continued, “and breaking another convention adds little to our deviation from norms. Unless, of course, you believe you need it for protection against me.”

He smirked, and you let out an uneasy laughter. The idea of anything stopping Tarkin was as ridiculous as the notion of needing protection against him.

“Of course not,” you told him with a brave smile, wishing he’d at least turn his head while you undressed. Not that he was unfamiliar with your body, but there were parts of it you’d rather not offer up for scrutiny.  

After that, you didn’t bother to bring sleepwear. It changed nothing, except that it bettered your sleep.

* * *

 

This night is different. Until now you have always successfully fought the impulse to lean into his touch with anything more than platonic affection, but this time your body screams for attention. Your conscious response when he settles down with his face against your belly and his arm around your thighs comes a fraction of a second too late. By the time you will yourself not to press back against his hand as it glides over your backside, you have already done it.

“Ah,” he says, instantly alert, opening just one eye. “It was perhaps unwise of me to lay claim to so much of your time. I assumed such needs could be taken care of prior to the night’s rest.”

“Your assumption is reasonable. I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps you need a few moments to yourself?”

“I - uh – I will manage.”

“Suit yourself.” He burrows down between the sheets again, absentmindedly (or with so much calculation) stroking your hip.

Your breath hitches and you feel like burning up inside.

“Please.” It’s only a whisper, a very small moan.

He raises up on one elbow.

“If there’s something you want from me, you need to specify this precisely. There must be no room for misinterpretation.”

After a couple of false starts, you choose the clinical path. “Would you please have intercourse with me?”

He cocks his head, lifting an eyebrow as he peers at you with a serious expression. Soon, his mouth tugs upwards and he leans close to your ear. His breath against your skin makes your neck hairs stand.

“With great pleasure,” he says in a low voice, his rolled r’s coming out like a purr. He brushes over your backside again, lets his hand stray down the backside of your things and then up again, to settle against the small of your back.

In another setting, you could be dancing the way he holds you. It is nice, but it’s not what you need, what you asked for. You roll onto your back, which makes his hand end up just above your mound.

He strokes the hair there and your breath hitches as his fingers are about to brush over your clit, only they don’t. Instead, he lifts them, hovering. A small noise of impatience comes over your lips.

“I trust you will allow me a few embellishments?” he says. “It is my experience that a circuitous manoeuvre will often yield a fuller victory than a more direct approach.”

“You’re petting me as if I were a small animal you didn’t want to spook.” Perhaps that comes near the truth, because he only nods thoughtfully, but continues. It is maddening, and you whine again.

 “We aren’t in a hurry, are we?” He continues to pet you as calmly as before, but his voice is sharp, a command more than a question.

“No, sir.” It not the right thing to call him, but it _feels_ right.

“There is no need for such formal address in this situation.” His voice is calm now, soothing. “Unless maintaining a certain verbal distance between us heightens the experience for you, in which case you may continue.”

“Thank you, sir.” Distance. Yes, there it is, the necessary distance that you have already failed to keep.  “I need it,” you tell him. “I need to be reminded, to remember who you are. I don’t want to forget myself.”

“Lest either of us would believe you’d give yourself to any old man.” He looks amused rather than bitter, but it’s still a cruel thought.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” He stills his hand, but keeps it between your legs.

How could you ever explain to him, that you cannot for a second forget who he is, but at the same time you’re with him not because of his title. The truth is far more dangerous. You will not tell him of your feelings.

“I know,” he declares, saving you. “You don’t need to explain.”

“Thank you, sir.” Again. You said it again, what if he doesn’t care for it? “And does it for you?” you ask.

“What?”

“Heighten the experience? When I say things like “sir, please continue to pet my cunt, sir”. The coarse language is a risk, even with your playful delivery.

“I have to admit it does.” He clears his throat. “This is enough talking, I believe. Turn over.”

* * *

 

You lie prostrate on the bed while he is somewhere where you can’t see him. You can feel him, the mattress dipping as he moves. One knee is near your hip now, the other – has he one foot on the floor? One hand is in front of your face, you can see it when you cheat. Long, thin fingers. Prominent veins, blue beneath the thin skin. The bed dips slightly on the other side. So, he has put another hand there.

Lying like this is enough to raise goose bumps on your thighs. He must be watching, but you don’t know where he’s looking. Then, you feel his breath against your neck, his nose in the small hairs there. He makes a muffled, half-annoyed sound – maybe he is ticklish? Then, lips along your spine, small not-quite-kisses that are caresses as much as instructions. Down. Do not move. You have no intention of doing so but cannot prevent your body from shivering.

A kiss to each butt-cheek – how cute! And embarrassing! – and he stands. Is this all? It is much more than you hoped for, and still, now that you’ve tasted it, it is nothing. The mattress dips again, between your feet. You make room for him and he chuckles. The brush of fingers against the back of your knee causes another shiver, but then, the slow trail along the inside of your thigh make you slow your breath. You are so wet already, what will he think?

“So soft,” he says as he lets his fingers glide back and forth over your skin. “Shimmersilk cannot rival it.”

He stirs, and now both hands are uses, twin sets of fingertips, caressing, petting, agonizingly softly. You shift slightly as the caresses come close to the junction of your thighs, spreads them just a little, lift up just so he can –

You wail as he reaches between, cannot resist lifting up a little more, displaying, offering yourself to him. He touches you with one hand, the other spreading your flesh for him to see better. You feel your cheeks heat, this is so shameful, so wondrous and incredible. It cannot be you moaning, this wanton creature that has invited her superior to fuck her and now writhes upon his fingers.

“Yes,” he hisses throatily. “Tell me how it feels.”

“I – ah – please!” He is going faster now, harder, and it is all you need and you try again to speak but it comes out as that slutty keening again and he clearly doesn’t care. His fingers drag relentlessly against your swollen slit and there are vulgar, sloppy sounds that he seems to relish in as he repeats his motions again and again.

“Should I fuck you now, perhaps?” he suddenly asks in his official voice. “You appear to be quite ready for my cock.” He doesn’t quite manage to hold the overbearing, condescending tone to the end of the sentence.  

“Yes,” you groan. “Sir – ah!” His fingers are gone and you’d do anything to have them back. “Please!”

“Soon,” he responds. “Very soon, now, you will feel me.”

It is not the way you expect. He parts your thighs further with his hands and then there’s something touching you and it is not a cock, but his tongue. It is as slippery as you are, and it very insistently worms its way in between your folds and you will surely die if he stops, or if he doesn’t.

“Up,” he groans.

You rise a little further on your knees and his fingers touch where his tongue doesn’t reach and if he doesn’t stop now now now it will be too late. You come with one finger on your clit, clenching against the two inside you and he doesn’t stop moving until you are still.

“There,” he says. “Now, if you would kindly allow me to remove my arm.”

You realize that you are literally strangling it, in addition to pressing it down in what must be a rather awkward angle for him.

“Sorry. Sir.”

You watch, rather ashamed, as he pulls out his arm from under you and stretches his fingers. All seems to be in working order.

“Now then,” he says, “if you would assume the previous position again so we may continue.”

He sounds unaffected, but there’s a small, wet spot at the crotch of his pyjamas.

You get onto your hands and knees, then watch as he takes out his cock. You’d like to touch, but just as soon realize that it will have to be some other time. He looks ready to burst already and you decide not to risk it by even asking.

The decision is a wise one. He kneels behind you and slips in with a loud groan, then stills. A couple of long, slow strokes and he pulls out again to pinch the base of his cock. His other hand glides over your backside, gropes and caresses as you lean into his touch.

 “I prefer to prolong a little,” he remarks. “It is not often nowadays I get the opportunity to engage in these activities.”

Really? A man so universally admired should have no difficulty finding bed partners. “You’re very desirable, sir, if I may say so. There’s nobody I’d rather be with.”

He makes a nondescript sound, something between a chuckle and a cough. “Just wait, a little more, and I will give you precisely what you need.”

When he enters you again, it is with a hard stroke that makes you cry out with the intensity of it. The subsequent thrusts are fierce, delivered in quick succession, and you lower your chest, bunching up the sheet in your hands as you take in all of him, everything he has to give and it is so much more and so much better and by the time he freezes and cries out his release all you need to be pushed over the edge is his hand at the small of your back.

When you are lying beside each other again, you are full of thoughts. What now? You have overstepped a barrier, and this may be the end of your intimacy with the Grand Moff. Will he continue to allow you in his bed, now that you have proved that you can’t be trusted to take care of your own issues? Has your lack of control ruined it all?

He sighs, apparently as unable to fall asleep as you. He turns towards you and moves a lock from your forehead. There’s a glitter in his eyes that hasn’t been there before.

“I have not yet come to the final decision,” he states, “but I believe we may have to change your schedule.”

A cold void instantly grows in your belly. “How?” you say in a small voice.

“I have reason to presume this will be a regular occurrence, beneficial to both of us. Thus, I need you to arrive earlier. On some nights, at least.” He scrutinizes you, the lack of immediate reaction causing a deepening of the creases on his forehead.

You need several seconds to take in the meaning of his words. He wants this to continue. With you. You want to hug and kiss him, and it is only with considerable effort you manage to sound reasonably professional.

“I agree, sir,” you say in a level voice, very proud of yourself.

He nods and moves closer, soon to be asleep in your arms. Everything is different between you now, but in this, nothing has changed.


End file.
